DULLES, VIRGINIA
I don’t trust him,” said Ana Thorne to Admiral Armstrong and Dr. McCreary. The three of them were standing on the tarmac in front of Landmark Aviation, one of four fixed-base operators (FBOs) at Dulles International Airport that provided private jet services for corporate clients and wealthy individuals. Thirty yards away, a gleaming white Cessna Citation CJ3 was preparing for takeoff, its twin turbofan engines whirring to life. The object of Thorne’s concern, Michael Califano, gazed inquisitively from his window aboard the private jet as the trio conversed about him on the tarmac.
All FBO flights originating from Dulles were required to file publicly accessible flight plans, and this one was no exception. If anyone had bothered to check the Cessna’s registration, they would have learned it was registered to the Constellation Aviation Group of Wilmington, Delaware, a full-service aviation company with a highly discreet clientele. The business dealings of Constellation’s clients ran the gamut from casino operations to private equity management to commercial real estate. But they all had one thing in common: they were all fake. Or more specifically, they were all front companies for the CIA. Constellation Aviation Group was, in fact, the CIA’s private airline, operating around the world twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
“First of all,” said Ana, nodding subtly toward the plane, “where did he learn to speak Croatian like that? He sounded practically fluent. And I can tell you, unless you grow up a native speaker, you don’t pick up that level of proficiency without some serious language training. Where’d he get it? And more important, how did he know I spoke it? He would’ve had to crack into my agency files to get that information, which is illegal.”
McCreary cleared his throat and looked at Armstrong with raised eyebrows. “You want to explain?”
Armstrong nodded and took Ana gently by the arm. “Let’s go where it’s a little quieter.”
“I’ll tell the pilot to wait,” said McCreary, heading toward the jet. “But don’t be long. Our flight plan has us taking off by six thirty, which is in twelve minutes. If we’re not in the takeoff queue by then, we’ll have to file a whole new flight plan.”
Armstrong led Ana Thorne toward an empty aircraft hangar nearby. Once they’d reached the relative quiet of the hangar, he turned and spoke. “Michael’s a special case. He grew up in Atlantic City, and his father was involved in some bad things. A lot of bad things, actually. When Michael was young, his father spent time in jail for forgery and check fraud. When he got out, he started dealing in counterfeit watches and jewelry, which led to counterfeit prescription drugs and eventually narcotics. On top of all that, he had a terrible gambling habit. When Michael was about twelve, his father got in over his head with a Bratva organization from New York. He’d run up a couple hundred thousand dollars in gambling debts that he couldn’t pay off.”
“The mob?”
“Uh-huh. So one night, while Michael was at a friend’s house, three men broke into his parents’ home. They forced his mother and father and fifteen-year-old sister into the basement. They bound and gagged his father and then—” Armstrong cleared his throat. “They raped Michael’s mother and sister . . . and cut their throats when they were done.”
“Oh, God.”
“Then they beat his father to death with a baseball bat.”
“Jesus.”
“Next morning when Michael got home, he found all three of them in the basement.”
Ana winced at the horrible mental image and shook her head.
“Can you imagine finding your entire family like that?”
Ana said nothing. Actually, she could imagine such a thing.
“Michael ended up in foster care. Not great in Atlantic City, especially for kids that age. He bounced around from home to home and had a real tough time for a while. But here’s the thing: Michael’s a prodigy, always has been. He was a phenomenal student, especially in math and science, and his teachers loved him. Despite everything, they kept him on the right path and made sure he applied to college. They even helped him get a scholarship. He ended up at Carnegie Mellon, where he majored in computer science and electrical engineering. Graduated top of his class. Got a scholarship to pursue a master’s at MIT . . . an NSA scholarship, actually. And that’s where his problems began.”
“How so?”
“What happened to his family . . . he carried that around like a ticking time bomb. After all those years, neither the local police nor the FBI had ever solved the crime. Imagine knowing that the animals who did that to your family were still out there, wandering around. I’m sure it ate away at him little by little, until one day something snapped. Or I should say, he discovered something that made him snap.”
“Which was what?”
Armstrong checked his watch. “We really need to get you on that plane.”
“Please tell me,” she said.
Armstrong sighed and glanced behind him at the plane. “Michael had developed a specialty in college, which he continued at MIT. He’d become an expert on data mining, which was an emerging field at the time. In fact, by the time he finished his first year at MIT, he’d already created one of the most sophisticated data-mining engines in the world. Single-handedly. As a twenty-two-year-old graduate student.”
“Impressive.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” Armstrong checked his watch again. “Look, we’ll have to finish this later. Let’s go.”
Ana started to protest but saw that Admiral Armstrong wasn’t waiting for her. He had already turned around and was heading back toward the plane. She caught up with him a few steps later. “But why does he speak Croatian?” she asked, walking a step behind him.
“Probably learned it on his own,” said Armstrong over his shoulder. “From a book.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” said Ana.
Armstrong stopped short and spun around, nearly causing Ana to crash into him. “Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t doubt him. His mind doesn’t work like other people’s. He’s . . . different.” He released her gaze and turned back toward the plane.
Ana followed close behind. “Okay, just tell me one more thing. What was he in prison for?”
They’d reached the plane. The ladder was down, the engines were spinning, and McCreary was emphatically motioning through his window for Ana to get on board. Armstrong turned slowly and gazed at her. It wasn’t a look of anger, exactly. It was more like a warning. “That’s classified,” he said.
Ana knew she’d crossed a line. In this field, confidential information was always compartmentalized. You knew only what you needed to know and nothing more. And it was clear to her that she’d just stepped into the wrong compartment. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s just—”
Armstrong cut her off. “Ana, you need to go.”
Ana nodded reluctantly and made her way up the Cessna’s ladder. When she reached the last step, she turned and glanced back at Armstrong.
Armstrong gave her a slight nod and a smile that seemed to say: You’re forgiven, now go.
The flight to West Virginia took just over thirty minutes. They landed at the Raleigh County Memorial Airport, where three black Ford Explorers were waiting for them on the tarmac. “Courtesy of our DEA friends,” said McCreary as they exited the airplane. “Keys are in the vehicles. Michael, you head to Fire Creek and see what you can find. Remember, you’re FBI today. Be sure to show your credentials and explain clearly why you’re there.”
Califano nodded. Today he was Special Agent Michael Califano of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he had the badge and ID to prove it. The CIA’s disguise people had even provided him with an off-the-rack blue suit, a pair of well-worn leather Oxfords, and a khaki raincoat. This was considered “FBI appropriate.”
“You’re here to investigate the escape of a mental patient from St. Elizabeth’s,” said McCreary, repeating the cover story he’d gone over twice on the plane. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I still think we could do better than that,” said Califano. “I mean, seriously, the old ‘escaped mental patient’ story? Do people still buy that?”
McCreary frowned. “Michael, we’re not writing a novel here. It’s a cover story that works, okay? It accounts for Holzberg’s strange appearance and anything crazy he might have said to people before we took him into custody. Stick to it, okay? No improvising. If you leave people wondering why you’re here, they start speculating. I don’t want people speculating.”
“I got it,” said Califano.
Ana kept her eyes fixed on Califano and shook her head slightly. She still didn’t trust him, although now she had a bit more empathy for him.
“Ana,” said McCreary. “You work with the county sheriff’s office and find out everything they have on that carjacking last night. Tell them it’s related to the St. Elizabeth’s incident, but don’t elaborate.”
Ana nodded.
“Okay. You’ve both got your earpieces in, right?”
Thorne and Califano nodded in unison. Each had a tiny earpiece lodged deep in one ear, completely invisible, and a small wireless microphone hidden in their clothing.
“Remember, Michael, when you tap the unit in your breast pocket, everything you say will be picked up and transmitted to both of us. It’s voice activated, so it keeps transmitting as long as you’re talking. It times out after about one second of silence. Try to keep the line clear unless it’s important, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll head to Thurmond and see what I can find there. Let’s meet back here at four thirty.”
With that, they separated and headed to their respective SUVs.
Ana paused before getting into her vehicle, and Califano did the same. Their eyes met momentarily over the hoods of their SUVs.
“Anything unusual happens out there,” Ana said, “make sure you call us.” She was about to say something else but stopped short. “Just . . . don’t take any chances, okay? You’re not trained for this.”
“Got it,” said Califano. He waited to see if Ana had anything more to say to him.
She didn’t.
A minute later, the three black SUVs exited the municipal airport and headed off in three different directions.